No Rest for the Wicked
by wakingupred
Summary: A very fluffy, future one shot about Puck, Quinn, and their family.


**AN: **So, there really is no point to this little (really short) fic, but I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing and I just can't ignore Puck and Quinn. It's definitely not spectacular, but it's a start.

Oh, and I don't own Glee. Sadly.

* * *

Noah Puckerman sleeps soundly at night.

Through earthquakes and hurricanes as his mom always tells him.

It's a good thing, as his six hours of sleep is like nine for any normal person, and that's at the high end of the scale in recent weeks. It's unfortunate that the only two things that disrupt his sleep are merging so perfectly together, though at this point, he isn't bothered at all.

Both will dissipate, both will have a comfortable position in their cycles.

Summer has arrived, so the heat he expects. He combats it by wearing as little to bed as possible, which suits him just fine. So fine, in fact, that he adopts the outfit for the winter months as well, because, despite the chill of the air, he still finds himself sweating through the night. Quinn's restlessness is what pesters him the most, as he can feel her shifting in his dreamless sleep. He knows it, too, will pass, though he still wishes it would hurry the fuck up and stop taking its sweet time.

He awakes one night to a movement, and is unsurprised to find the comforter dangling off the edge of the bed (Quinn always starts the night cold, and ends up stifling like him) as is one of his legs. Another shift causes him to turn his head towards her side of the bed, where he finds her staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, one hand behind her head, and the other resting gently on her burgeoning belly.

"Go to sleep," he murmurs as his head sinks into the pillow, eyes drearily watching her figure. She doesn't respond, merely inhales a deep breath, chest rising uniformly against the darkness of the room. Her quiet breathing almost lulls him back to sleep, but Puck forces himself to stay attentive, stay awake. They've been over this before, even with a doctor present, and he has no intention of letting her forget. "Quinn…"

"I know," she responds in an airy whisper, still unmoving save for the rise and fall of her chest. They lay in silence for a few moments, one too tired to break the air, the other too caught up in thoughts. It's a comfortable silence, as the ones between them have always been, but he can't quell the feeling that she is fretting over something. Eight months pregnant and unable to sleep because she is thinking, not because her back aches or the baby is kicking. She thinks too much, in his opinion, making him wish she had his ability to shut down when necessary. It would suit her better, since she's the one carrying his child, not the other way around. Why would he need the sleep, when she's so obviously craving it?

"I was thinking…"

Quinn breaks the silence first, although fails to complete her thoughts. He waits, knowing that she will finish when the words come to her.

"What about Shaun?"

"Shaun?"

"You know…for a name." It takes him a moment to realize what she's referring to (his brain is hibernating, after all), and she, like the apt young woman that she is, does not fail to miss this hesitation. "I know it's a boy's name, but I met a girl named Shaun once. It's different."

"Different is good."

He doesn't see her smile through the darkness, but he knows that the corners of her lips have twitched upwards. She needs confirmation that it isn't a crazy idea, that it does suit the baby growing in her stomach. "You don't think...she might get picked on? It's not too different?"

Puck laughs at her ignorance (probably not a good idea, but he's never treated her like a fragile woman, pregnant or not), which results in Quinn furrowing her brow and punching him in the stomach. "It's not funny," she responds to his mirth, as serious as he's ever heard her. She's worried, he knows.

He almost laughs again, but busies himself with rubbing the growing bruise on his stomach instead, waiting until he's prepared to speak without saying something she'll take _too_ seriously. He lets out a sharp breath of air and props himself up on an elbow, a joyful smile etched into his features as he looms over her pouting figure. Her jaw is set, and she's crossed her arms tightly over her chest which is never a good sign. But he never paid attention to the signs anyways. "Listen, if you think I'm going to let a kid of ours get picked on, you're crazy." A muscle in Quinn's jaw twitches, but she remains static, stoic. She ignores the information in front of her, and he can only roll his eyes in exasperation. He, Noah Puckerman, King of William McKinley High School never let anyone get the best of him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to allow them to take advantage of his child either. There was proof of that.

"Last time someone tried--"

"There's a difference between defending yourself and picking a fight for no reason. Last time, there was no reason." It's the truth and he knows it, but that doesn't mean he agrees with her. Regardless, he keeps his mouth shut, and lets the dark silence surround the both of them, giving her a chance to catch her emotions. It was something that didn't take long to learn. Quinn is an extremely rational person; give her a moment to gather her thoughts and nearly anything can slide off her skin. He's convinced it's one of the few reasons that they've made it this far _together._

"That kid deserved it," he finally whispers, and is not surprised to hear a small chuckle escape Quinn's lips.

"He was three!"

"That's no excuse for bad manners."

"Bad manners?" She turns to him incredulously, hair spilling over her shoulders as she mirrors his position: one elbow under the weight of her body, the other draped protectively over her stomach. "Do you _really_ want to argue that _he_ had the bad manners?" Puck merely shrugs in response, that teasing smile still lingering on his lips. He knows he's got her right where he wants her; after all, tearing into him is something that she's mastered over the years. For a moment, she can only blink at him, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water. "It was _your_ daughter that kicked him in the balls in the first place."

"I'm sure he did something to deserve it. Grace wouldn't--"

"You mean like that time she told Mary Nesbit their class frog tasted like chocolate, so the poor girl--"

Puck's laughter drowns out the rest of her statement, but it's too contagious to upset Quinn any more. Within seconds, she is laughing alongside him (though whether she finds it genuinely funny is debatable; it could be the hormones), and they both fall softly into the bed sheets below. "I'm not letting you corrupt this one too. One is bad enough," she says as she rests her head on his chest and lays an arm over his waist, letting the familiar feeling of his beating heart and the warmth of his skin assist her in drifting into a slumber.

"Whatever. Now go to sleep."

She attempts to fake a yawn, but it becomes real halfway through, leaving him immensely satisfied at his own skill. "You need your sleep," he whispers as his arm tightens over her shoulder, "Grace is going to kill you for not letting her pick the name."


End file.
